Commandos: Turn of the Cards
by Play J
Summary: With the odds already against them, the Commandos only have one shot at a difficult mission. Dwindling resources, limited intelligence, and a new ally all make for a task that demands absolute perfection from the team. Based on the Commandos game series.


Author's Notes: This story is based on Mission 3: Reserve Engineering of Commandos: Behind Enemy Lines. Character personalities are based on what little we really know of them and my own interpretation of them. Details from the games have been changed (its fan fiction, after all) for this fan fic.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything of the Commandos series. Officer Kilmore is just a name I gave the nameless player-controlled officer from the series. Constantly referring to him as 'the Officer" would just be strange and annoying.

**Commandos: Turn of the Cards**

**Chapter 1: A Roll of the Dice**

LOCATION: CLASSIFIED

YEAR: 1939

The confined, plain interior of the Briefing Room provided Officer Kilmore with a certain sense of security. He was seated at the end of a long and lonely table, patiently waiting. He studied the map of Sysendam sprawled out upon the table carefully for the hundredth time. This mission was not going to be easy. Then again, the word "easy" had become a relative term by this point; nothing they did was ever actually easy. This new assignment, however, was a gamble plain and simple. Resources were dwindling. Few materials were available to complete this daunting task. It also demanded skills that few men possessed. This mission was something devised on a whim, springing up from out of the blue. Even taking that into consideration, they were unprepared for it. Despite the risks, it promised incredible advantages that could simply not be ignored, but this undertaking had to be accomplished as quickly as possible to capitalize on its rewards. It was for mission like these that the commandos were needed.

Heavy footsteps could be heard outside the room. Kilmore picked up his head expectantly. The door opened with a slight squeal and in entered a tall, burly man. His jaw was wide and his face stern and chiseled. A green beret sat angled on his shaven head.

"Welcome, O'Hara," The officer rose from his seat to greet him.

"Officer," the man nodded in respect to Kilmore. "The others will be in soon."

Sergeant Jack "Tiny" O'Hara was almost everything you would hope to find in a commando. Strong, hardy, and loyal, O'Hara was the undisputed leader of the men under Officer Kilmore, and more than his rank contributed to his position. Loyal to his comrades and an absolute nightmare for everyone else, he had a particular disdain for discipline and authority. More often than not did he find himself at odds with his superiors, and even more often did he turn the victor of such disagreements. Kilmore, while well respected, was typically no exception.

"I will begin briefing you once everyone has assembled," Kilmore began to pace toward the door. "Take a seat, Sergeant."

O'Hara complied, occupying the nearest chair at the table. He glanced at the map and then slowly at door. His brows furrowed slightly. He was ready to get this briefing underway. Patience was not one of the Irishman's virtues. Fortunately, it was not long before three more of the commandos entered the room quietly, each nodding a respectful "sir" as they passed the officer.

"Pardon the delay, Officer," from the sound of his voice, it was difficult to tell if Francis' apology was sincere or sarcastic. "We were searching for Blackwood."

"Status?"

"The mission was unsuccessful, sir."

Francis T. Woolridge was a rare sort. One of the few men of nobility to walk in the Commando Corps, he possessed an air of refinement despite his position as a sniper, and one of the best in the world at that. A methodical and level-headed solider, but also stand-off with his own allies, Francis could be difficult to approach. For his haughtiness, his comrades had given him the nickname "Duke". Regardless, he was a faithful member of the unit.

"We'll allot him a few more minutes before issuing a rescue party," Kilmore's humor was often dry. He turned around and returned to his chair at the end of the table.

'_This really isn't the time for such humor,'_ the officer thought, placing his intertwined hands under his chin. _'This situation can't be made so light.'_

"I have this horrible feeling I know what he's doing," Thomas gazed at the wall and shook his head in disappointment. "Another one of his 'covert operations'…"

Thomas "Fireman" Hancock was not a "by-the-book" kind of soldier. You couldn't be that kind of soldier and be in this division. A sapper with a certain creativity for developing and placing demolitions, Hancock knew how to make just about anything into an explosive. His gallantry was often a source of praise even when his own rashness placed Hancock himself into harm's way. Perhaps even more appreciated was his light-heartedness; something that few people could maintain and stay grounded in the reality of things.

Kilmore sighed almost involuntarily and let his head hang down. He closed his eyes. He knew there would be trouble with the General Staff if this was the case. Sid placed a consoling hand on the officer's shoulder.

"Don't worry, Boss. You've told him a thousand times, Blackwood knows the deal about alcohol," Sid reasoned confidently. "He'll be here in no time at all."

There's no telling what sorts the Commando Corps will attract. This statement proved true for Samuel Brooklyn, now under the alias Sid Perkins. After a long criminal career in the US, this mechanic-by-day, thief-by-night escaped to Britain before he could be sentenced. After joining the army, he impressed officials with his wide knowledge of mechanics and firearms and was encouraged to join the Commandos. Perpetually optimistic, Sid's past made him initially difficult to trust him. He had long since proven himself a reliable, valuable member of the team in spite of his timidness.

"For the sake of this assignment, I can only hope so," Kilmore's voice trailed off.

A few more moments passed before the door suddenly opened. A lean man entered the room boldly. His face was slender, with his chin tapering to a point. A beard framed his mouth, accentuating the hollowness of his face. All heads turned towards him, causing him to stop in his path.

"State the reason for your tardiness, Blackwood," Kilmore was obviously not amused. This was far from the first tardy. James hesitated, and then saluted smartly.

"I was procuring crucial munitions, sir." Blackwood stated coolly.

"More liquor, Blackwood?" Kilmore let his face fall into his open palm. "We've been over this before."

"I'm not gonna drink it all at once, officer. I'm a soldier after all; I know the value of rationing."

"Don't forget that it's the mistake that got you dismissed from the navy and put here."

"And it's the best mistake I ever made, sir." James flashed a smile. He meant what he had said.

"…Sit down, Blackwood."

James "Fins" Blackwood could only be described as 'something else'. After several disciplinary issues involving alcohol, Blackwood was given the options of dismissal from the navy or joining the Commando Corps as a soldier. Something of a joker and immature at times, he was nevertheless irreplaceable as a marine. While trained for aquatic missions, Blackwood was competent in less favorable environments, always striving to accomplish his tasks. His demeanor would have anyone believe otherwise, though.

James joined his fellow commandos at the briefing table. The team was finally assembled. Kilmore cleared his throat, demanding to be the focus of everyone's attention. He stood up, folding his arms behind his back, and began to speak.

"Before I can fully brief you on this undertaking, I must first tell you that none of you possess the expertise this mission necessitates. The Commando Corps has contacted a specialist to aid you in completing this assignment. He has agreed to become a part time member of this unit."

"I'm not one for surprises, officer," O'Hara learned forward onto the table, narrowing his eyes. "Why wasn't I informed sooner?"

"O'Hara, there was little preparation for this mission. I am fully aware that you believe you are entitled to some recruitment authority in this unit, but there is no time for your evaluations. His help is essential."

"And what, exactly, can he do that we can't?" James had his feet propped up onto the table and his arms folded behind his head.

"He is an expert in communication, infiltration and sabotage. Very possibly the best we have."

"So a spy?" Sid asked, genuinely surprised. There had yet to be any covert agents assigned to their unit. Rigorous background checks had to be performed before recruiting men in that field. There was no telling just what could and would happen when spies were involved.

Soft footsteps preceded the door opening once again. A tall man came forward into the Briefing Room. He dressed simply, eloquently. He wore a brown overcoat and red-brown Gatsby hat, and black round-framed glasses. The reflections of the lens hide his eyes and provided a peculiar mystique. His voice was smooth and fluent. It was also thickly accented with a French dialect.

"Excuse my late arrival, Officer," the Frenchman offered an apology with a small droop of his head.

"Excused. It's good to see you again, Duchamp." The officer nodded approvingly.

"Merci, sir," Duchamp proceeded to the table and quietly took a seat next to James, who suddenly cracked a grin.

"Oooh, late on the first day," James whistled mockingly. An annoyed expression crossed Francis' face as he turned toward the marine.

"You just came in 5 minutes ago," Francis started, "You're hardly one to talk."

"It's a privilege of seniority, mate," James shrugged smugly and leaned back into his chair.

"Apparently one that you exercise daily,"

"Please, gentleman. Show even a shred of professionalism, will you?" Kilmore interrupted them. "This is Rene Duchamp. He is the specialist I've informed you of. There's time to get acquainted after the briefing. We must begin."

"This mission is the first of many to follow. It has been decided that we will organize infiltrations into Norway to apply pressure to the German forces there. We hope this will compel Hitler to abandon the Mediterranean border and attempt to secure this region instead. Unfortunately, the small window of opportunity for this particular task has opened sooner than expected. Worse yet, our information on this location is limited. This mission will lead you into Eidjford where you must destroy the dam of Sysendam."

Kilmor then rose to his feet and neared the table. He leaned over it and began signifying critical points on the map. His index finger rested in its northernmost section.

"Without this dam, the hydro-electric power plant in Sima will not be able to function, and Eidjford will lose all electric power there. Excess water resulting from the dam's destruction could potentially wipe out numerous important bridges in the area as well."

"How can we demolish the dam without the necessary materials?" Thomas inquired. "I would need at least a few high-power explosives to make an impact on the dam, and supplies haven't yet arrived."

"Fortunately, south of the dam, intelligence reveals that there is a Nazi encampment and a transformer station near it," Kilmore's finger traced carefully down the map, pausing at the described locations. "There is a high probability that you can find the explosives you need in that station. However, reports indicate that the perimeter of the transformer station is protected by an electrified fence. The generator is located somewhere within it. The camp may be of interest, but this station is our primary concern."

"Doesn't sound too hard yet, Boss," Sid surmised. "…What's the catch?"

"There is only one way into the transformer station. That is where this gentleman comes in," Kilmore motioned towards Duchamp, who acknowledged the gesture. "He will enter it and shut down the generator. I'm sure he will have no trouble finding to the means to do so, either."

That remark raised a few eyebrows. This man was blatantly French; too distinguished to become an unknown. Everything about him was a potential dead give-away. His mannerisms, his accent, even his high, pronounced cheekbones. Even with a change of clothes, who could he fool?

"Once the power has been shut off, Hancock will need to enter the transformer station. You best bet will be to cut through the fence and slip in. Once inside, seek to acquire whatever needed to get the job down. If you can't find the resources, you are all to vacate the area immediately and return to your deployment point in the north. There are a few natural obstacles to overcome," On the map, Kilmore raced his finger along the river separating the encampment from the transformer station. "But with the entire team on this mission, they will be the least of you concerns. Prepare yourselves, men. If you are to accomplish this mission, you will need nothing less than perfection. That is all the information I can provide you with. It will not be long before this operation is taken underway. You are dismissed. Good luck"

With that, the commandos rose, nearly in unison, and proceeded out of the Briefing Room silently; the significance of this mission was a sobering reality. O'Hara remained in the room with Officer Kilmore. Kilmore turned his back to the Sergeant. He had a feeling he knew what he was in store for.

"You know how I feel about spies, Kilmore. I just can't trust them," O'Hara spoke low in vague frustration. "Working with them is risky enough, but to have one assigned to my unit?"

"Unfortunately, I can not claim credit for Duchamp's appointment to your team, O'Hara. I've worked with him before and, quite frankly, I have absolute faith in him. Maybe you can't trust me now when I tell you he will be a welcome addition to the Commandos Corp, but I can guarantee that you will after this mission." In Kilmore's voice, there was unwavering conviction.

"I'm not too keen on disregarding the standard recruitment procedures," the Sergeant bit his bottom lip lightly. It was strange hearing these words from a man that was so adverse to obedience. He did care about the success of his mission and the well-being of his comrades, however, and for those he would to commit to some ordinance.

"O'Hara, choice is merely a luxury in this operation. If I was unfamiliar with Duchamp, I'd look for alternatives, but I am familiar and there aren't any," Kilmore hesitated briefly, "After this mission, I'll take your opinion into consideration if you have any problems with him. For now, he is a member of your team and is to be treated as one."

"…Alright, sir, but don't think even for a second that I'm happy about this," O'Hara accepted these terms and stood up from his chair. There was no negotiating under these conditions. He offered a salute to the officer before retiring from the Briefing Room. He found some peace in Kilmore's reasonableness, but he was still suspicious of what was to come.

The door shut behind the Sergeant with a hollow echo. Kilmore was fortunate that even O'Hara recognized when a desperate situation required the few rules to which he would adhere to be bent a bit. There was no telling just what would go wrong, and there were many things that could. Kilmore sat down and brought a hand to his temple. He forced a sigh, not of resignation, but of uncertainty. There was only an unsettling silence in the room to accompany him.

Author's Notes: And there is the first chapter. Somewhat vague in details, I realize. Whether or not it's enjoyable, I at least hope it encourages other fans of the series to follow suit. Suggestions are welcome and more than appreciated.


End file.
